A Bad Day All Around
by Disgruntled Peony
Summary: No one is having an easy time of it on this crazy Saturday.


Title: A Bad Day All Around

Author: liz_Z

E-mail: liz_Z@secret-agent.com

Category: Humor

Rating: PG-13

Spoilers: Nope, although there is this tiny little reference to 'A Sense of Community'.

Season/Sequel info: Takes place after the end of the second season.

Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, and no amount of wishful thinking can change that.

Author's notes: Okay, the reason I wrote this story is real simple. I was ticked off at my sister, so instead of yelling at her, I sat down and started to let the I-man characters rant for me. After I cooled off a bit I realized that I was actually having a lot of fun, so I kept writing. Ironically, the argument with my sister had been writing-related in the first place... Anyway, this story is told in first person, each individual section is from a different point of view, and the timeline jumps back and forth depending on whose POV it is. Slightly bizarre, I'll admit, but it sure was fun to write. ;)

~~~~~**********~~~~~

Hobbes

~~~~~**********~~~~~

Why do I even bother? I have to wonder sometimes. I mean, I do my job, I do my duty for fat man and country. And what do I get? A wimpy paycheck and a 'thanks for nothing, pal'. And that's when the fat man's in a good mood.

I get no respect. After all, who needs respect when you've been drummed out of just about every alphabet agency in the book? Yeah, I'm exaggerating a bit, but you get my drift. Bobby Hobbes doesn't get any respect around here, my friend.

Sometimes even Fawkes and Claire don't take me seriously. They just shake their heads and ask 'have you taken your pills today?' And it doesn't matter whether I have or not, they've already chalked everything up to the fact that I'm crazy, so they have the right to ignore me.

Don't even get me started on Eberts. That guy takes pure pleasure out of torturing me in the file room. I mean, sure, most of the time he's just a pushover, but down in the archives HE RULES. And let me tell you, it's a frightening sight. Kinda like watching a clown drive around on a motorcycle with a shotgun. It's just... wrong.

Why am I talking about the filing room? Because that's basically where I've been living for the past week, that's why. The Official got ticked off when I broke one too many glass windows and stuck me on paper-pusher duty for a couple of weeks as penance. He partnered Fawkes up with Monroe in the meantime. Fawkes and Monroe both seemed pretty upset about that one.

And here I am, on the freakin' weekend, just stuffing a bunch of papers into their appropriate spots. Or, I think they're the appropriate spots, anyway. I'm so sick of seeing pink and green- no, not green, MINT- papers by now that I think I could puke. Where do those mint-colored papers go, anyway? Great, I'm probably gonna have to do all this over again...

You know what? Screw it. Just screw the whole thing. I'm taking an early lunch break. If I can escape from Eberts the slave driver, that is. Okay Hobbesy, just act smooth. He's standing over there in his own little world, filing happily away. If you play your cards right, he might not even notice you're gone. Just sneak on over to the door, nice and easy, he won't even notice-

"Robert?" Oh crap, he noticed.

Okay, play it innocent, maybe he just needed your help or something. "Yeah?"

"Why are you trying to sneak out of the room?" Well, so much for that theory.

Okay, scratch the innocent thing. Time to take the indignant approach. "Sneak? Sneak? Bobby Hobbes doesn't sneak, my friend."

Eberts gives me an irritated look. "Lunch isn't for another half hour. Please continue filing."

Now, I've been stuck in here with Eberts for a week now. And, since I've been spending so much time with the guy, I've learned to translate his paper-pusher jargon into a language I can actually comprehend. That right there was Eberts speak for 'get back to work, slave, or I'll have you thrown in the dungeon', the dungeon being the deepest, darkest part of the archives. I'm telling you, that place is haunted by the ghost of some poor soul who bit off more than he could chew and was sentenced to filing hell for all eternity. And he probably won't be the only one haunting the archives before long, the way things have been going for me lately.

Anyway, innocence is out, and the whole indignant thing won't work again so soon. Might as well go with sarcasm. "Of course, master. You want me to do anything else while I'm at it? Maybe stand on my head or peel you a grape?"

Eberts looks really annoyed now. Good. "You know Robert, I don't like this any better than you do. I've had to correct so many filing mistakes over the past seven days that I'm beginning to fall drastically behind in my duties. If you would just make more of an effort to..." Oh joy, yet another filing lecture. That's the fourth one this week. I'm not listening, la-la-la la-la la...

Oh, yay, he's finally stopped. Probably figured out that I was ignoring him. He shakes his head now, a disappointed look on his face. "You'll never learn..." That's the point, though. If I don't file well, eventually the Official will realize that putting me down here causes more harm than good. And then I won't need to learn the proper filing procedures, 'cause I won't be sent down to the archives any more.

Well, I have a half an hour to kill, or to be more precise, twenty-three minutes. When Eberts gets his rant on, he really gets it on. So, back to the ol' filing cabinets of doom. Let's see, 'D' is for debriefing, 'P' is for paycheck, and 'I' is for insanely boring, which is what this is. Listening to Eberts yell was more fun, for crying out loud!

"Robert, what are you DOING?" And there he goes again. Guess I was asking for it, this time.

"What?" I'm not playing innocent this time; I really don't know what I did. All I know is that Eberts is staring in horror at my right hand. That's a big hint right there. I look down. All I see is a file in my hand. It looks just like all the thousands of other files in this dump. But then I notice one significant difference. It's wrinkled. Oh boy, here we go...

"How could you do this? That file was in pristine condition! Not a wrinkle, not a tear! Look at it now. Its perfect surface has been hopelessly marred. That's the sixth one this week!"

"C'mon Eberts, chill! It's just a file."

"Just a file? JUST A FILE?" Eberts throws his hands up in frustration. "I give up. I can't take this anymore! What was the Official thinking, stationing you down here like this?" My God, he actually looks like he's going to cry. "What did I do to deserve this? Goodness knows I've always done my job..." He turns and gives me this crazed look that reminds me vaguely of how Fawkes used to look sometimes when he was quicksilver mad. "Get out! NOW!"

I get out. I get out as fast as my legs will carry me. Maybe now the Official will learn his lesson. Maybe he'll even let me back on active duty early. Yeah, right. He'll probably chew me up and spit me out for the vultures. But at least I got out of that damn filing room.

I jump as a nearby door slams open and Fawkes and Monroe walk in. Or rather, Monroe walks in. Fawkes limps in, one arm wrapped around her shoulder to steady himself. Alarm bells immediately begin to go off in my head and I rush over to help Fawkes, asking Monroe, "What happened?"

Monroe replies in a matter-of-fact tone, "Fawkes got shot."

Fawkes gives Monroe a livid glare. "Yeah, by you!" Monroe just shrugs.

I start to panic, but then I realize that if Fawkes is able to walk- after a fashion, anyway- then he can't have been hit too badly. "Where'd he get shot?" I ask. Then I see where, and I just have to laugh. "Oh man, she shot you in the-"

"Yes, she did," Fawkes says irritably. "Look, just get me down to the Keep, okay? I don't need the commentary." I nod and start steering Fawkes in the general direction of the lab, doing all I can to keep from breaking out into a fit of laughter. I know it's not right to laugh at something like this, but after the day I've had I need something to lighten the mood, and this'll do as well as anything.

~~~~~**********~~~~~

Darien

~~~~~**********~~~~~

Okay, it's official. I'm in hell. Or, if you want to get technical, on a stakeout. But not just any old stakeout, no. I'm stuck in a cramped, damp, greasy old junk-pile of a car with none other than Agent Alexandra Monroe herself. Or, as I'm beginning to think of her, the devil-woman. How else can you describe Alex when she's in a bad mood?

Neither of us wants to be here, that much is painfully obvious. We've been working all week, and we're both exhausted. And now the Official's called us in, ON A SATURDAY, to put us on some stupid stakeout. We're supposed to be keeping an eye out for some drug smugglers or something. At least I think that's what we're supposed to be doing. I was too busy dreaming up ways to get back at the Official for dragging me out of bed on a Saturday to actually pay much attention during the briefing.

Working with Alex is never a picnic. I mean, sure, she's a good agent and all, but her people skills can be sorely lacking. And today, they're even worse than usual. She hasn't said anything to me for the past hour except one thing- 'shut up, Fawkes'. Whenever I try to say something, 'shut up Fawkes'. It gets really irritating after about the fifth time you hear it. Gives me a little more sympathy for Eberts, the poor guy. Being told to shut up all the time really bites.

Alex sits up a little straighter in the driver's seat. "Okay, here we go." I look up and sure enough, there're a couple of guys down by the warehouse holding suspicious-looking cases and conversing in hushed tones. "Do your thing," Alex says, watching the men intently.

I can't help it; I just have to say something. "What, no 'shut up Fawkes'?" Yeah, it's kind of lame, but it just had to be said.

Alex rolls her eyes and shoves a hand-held radio into my hand. "Just get out there and keep the channel open."

"Oh, lovely. So now I'm reduced to being the ears of the operation."

Alex glares at me. "Just go, Fawkes." Well, it's better than 'shut up'. I shrug, give her what I hope is a singularly obnoxious grin, and open the car door. A simple elevation of the heartbeat and I feel the quicksilver beginning to cover my skin and clothing. It's second nature to me by now, but I always feel a tiny spark of fear as the quicksilver covers my skin. Whether it's just the fact that I can't see myself anymore or the residual fear of quicksilver madness, I'm not sure. But whatever it is, I'm always just the tiniest bit nervous whenever the quicksilver begins to cover me.

Moments later I'm completely covered, and I get to see the world in a whole new light. Literally. What with the quicksilver vision being in different spectrums of light and all, it makes things very interesting. It takes a bit of getting used to, but like I said, all this is second nature to me by now.

I turn on the radio-thing Alex gave me and start humming part of some half-forgotten song I heard a while back. My efforts are rewarded when I hear the sound of a very irritated Alex muttering "Fawkes..." on the other end of the line.

I can feel the corners of my mouth turning up in a cheeky grin. "Just testing out the radio." Okay, enough playing around. I'd better get on with the job before Tweedledee and Tweedledum over there finish their little transaction and walk off into the sunset. I saunter on over to where they're standing and hold up the radio so Alex can hear what they're saying.

Tweedledee holds out his briefcase and mutters, "Here's the cash. Gimme the stuff."

Tweedledum shakes his head and keeps a firm grip on his case, which looks a little bigger than what I'd expect a drug-dealer to be carrying around. But, having never been one, I wouldn't really know. "Show me the money or no dice." Wow, how's that for mixed metaphors?

Dee sighs and opens up his case. It's full of money all right; just the sort of thing an ex-thief like me would love to get their hands on. Of course, considering my current occupation there's no way that's gonna happen, but hey, a guy can dream, right?

Dee looks over at Dum expectantly. "Well?" Dum opens his own case, but I'm not seeing drugs here. I'm seeing guns. Lots of guns. They're big, too. Did I mention they were big? Guess that's what I get for not paying attention in class...

Dee looks satisfied. So does Dum. I have a feeling they're about to clinch the deal- call it instinct, or the fact that they're trading cases. Where's Alex? I would've thought she'd be making her move right now... Crap, I don't want to do this alone!

Okay, fine. She's not gonna show up? Then forget about her. I can do this by myself, thank you very much. I've got two years of experience under my belt and a quicksilver gland in my head, I can do this. This should be like stealing candy from a- oh, wait, bad analogy. This should be a piece of cake. So why am I scared stiff?

Well, at this point it doesn't really matter whether I'm nervous or not. Alex is nowhere to be seen, and these guys are about to walk off with the goods. The way I see it, there's only one thing I can do. "Hey boys, sorry to crash your party, but you're both under arrest." Dee and Dum look around, probably trying to figure out where I am. Well, they can try all they want, but they're not going to find me. And the beauty of it is, I'm standing right in front of them.

Hmm, Dee is pulling out one of those fancy new guns he just bought. It sure looks scary, but it wouldn't be loaded. No one would be stupid enough to sell someone a loaded gun... but, according to the spray of bullets that just came within two feet of my body, apparently Dum is! I think the best thing here would be to duck and cover, or at least try the ducking part.

Okay, I'm down on the ground now, and let me just say that I definitely prefer a worm's eye view of this spectacle. Dee's still shooting all over the place; I'm surprised he hasn't shot Dum at point blank range yet. And THERE'S Alex! I guess she finally decided to make an appearance. Looks like she's here just in time to see- or not see, since I'm still invisible- my head get blown off!

"Federal Agent!" Alex hollers, but she doesn't waste any time with pleasantries. Talking with Dee obviously won't work at this point, so she pulls out her gun and starts firing at him. One, two, three shots fired, and all of a sudden Dee has three fresh bullet holes in his chest. He falls over backwards, obviously dead, and Dum promptly decides to stop gawking and start running, with the money still in hand.

Okay, you know me; I can't stand to see guys like him get away, especially with that much cash. So I get up off the ground and start running after him- and promptly yelp in pain and surprise as I feel a bullet hit me square in the butt. I topple forwards, clutching my derriere, and the quicksilver showers off me as I hit the ground. I grit my teeth and mutter "Damnit, Alex!" After all, she's the only one who could possibly be the culprit.

Alex runs by, gives me a worried glance, and then tears off after Dum, who is just rounding the corner of a building. She rushes around the corner after him. There's some sort of commotion going on back there, but I have other things to do at the moment. Things like trying to get a good view of my rear so I can figure out just how bad my wound really is.

Okay, as far as I can see, the hole isn't too big and it isn't bleeding much. I think that's good. But there's no hole coming out on the other side, which means that the bullet's still in there. Perfect, just perfect. Claire would probably say that I made out pretty good under the circumstances. All I know is, it hurts like crazy.

Alex waltzes back around the corner. She's brought a friend, too. Looks like she managed to convince Dum to come back with her after all, albeit somewhat roughly. He's now wearing the obligatory handcuffs, and it looks like he might've gotten a broken nose into the bargain.

Alex shows the guy to the back of the rust-bucket car the Official assigned to us for our job today and then walks back over to me. She bends down and asks the one thing she should definitely not be asking at the moment. "Fawkes, are you okay?"

~~~~~**********~~~~~

Alex

~~~~~**********~~~~~

Okay, first of all let me just say that this day has been crappy from the start. My alarm didn't go off, so I didn't wake up in time to take my early-morning run. The reason the alarm hadn't gone off was because the power had cut out in my apartment sometime in the middle of the night, which meant that everything in the refrigerator went bad. So, no breakfast for me. And then, the Official calls me up on my cell phone and says he has a job for me. I'm sure you can imagine my enthusiasm at that.

After a grueling half-hour, which consisted of wrestling my car out of the garage and driving down to the Harding Building, I headed up to the Official's office to find, joy of joys, Fawkes sitting in the chair next to mine. He looked like he had literally been dragged out of bed. You know, dirty jeans, slept-in t-shirt, mismatched socks, the works. He was, like me, not a happy camper.

The Official proceeded to brief us on our assignment, which was basically a glorified stakeout. Sit around waiting for some guy to make a trade with a weapons dealer, bust the two of them, and bring them back to the Agency, simple as that. No challenge of all. Just the sort of job I loathe. Not to mention the fact that we had to do it on the weekend.

So naturally when the Official stuck us with a car that looked like it had been grabbed straight from the crap-pile and sent us out to fend for ourselves, I was a tad bit irritated. That wasn't helped by the fact that Fawkes WOULD NOT SHUT UP! It was like trying to deal with Hobbes when he's off his meds- just plain impossible. It's taken at least an hour of one-way conversation to get him to shut up, and by now my butt is starting to fall asleep. When will these guys get here, anyway?

Well, speak of the devil... two guys just walked up in front of the warehouse and started talking with each other. Judging from the cases in their hands, I'd say they're not making casual conversation. I sit up a little, glad that I finally have the chance to get this job over with. "Okay, here we go." Fawkes looks up. I give him a moment to assess the situation and then say, "Do your thing."

Fawkes crosses his arms and says in an accusing tone, "What, no 'shut up Fawkes'?" What was that for? I mean, yeah, I told him to shut up a couple of times, but it's not like he hasn't heard it before. Can't he let anything go?

I roll my eyes in irritation and pull out the hand-held radio the Official managed to dig up for this mission. "Just get out there and keep the channel open."

"Oh lovely, now I'm reduced to being the ears of the operation," Fawkes says, using that sarcastic tone of his that always gets on my nerves.

I glare at him, trying to keep my temper in check. "Just go, Fawkes." Go before I'm seriously tempted to force you into an extended hospital stay. Fawkes climbs out of the car, muttering something as he opens the door, and quicksilvers. I'll never quite get used to seeing him disappear like that. It just isn't natural. An amazing breakthrough in science, yes, but definitely not natural.

I lean back a bit and settle in for the job at hand, but am surprised to notice sounds coming from the radio already. It doesn't take long for me to figure out what's going on; Fawkes is humming 'I'm Too Sexy' into the radio. Not only do I find that song completely lacking when it comes to musical talent, but the fact that Fawkes has the gall to hum that to anyone, let alone me, is completely appalling. My face curls up in something reminiscent of a snarl and I growl into the radio, "Fawkes..."

Fawkes stops humming and says, "Just testing out the radio." Yeah right. I can feel him smirking from here. I place my hands firmly on the steering wheel in an attempt to keep them from strangling Fawkes of their own accord.

Okay, the transaction has begun, or so I gather from what I'm hearing over the radio. Finally, Fawkes is doing things right for a change. If he starts humming again I'm going to shoot him.

I'm just about to climb out of the car and head on over to put an end to the gunrunning party, when someone taps quietly on the glass of my car window. I turn around, ready to give Fawkes a piece of my mind for playing around when he's supposed to be on a mission, but it isn't Fawkes I see through the glass. Instead, it's a very ugly-looking man with a gun aimed at my head. As if my day wasn't bad enough already...

The guy looks me up and down, then leers and says, "Hey sweetie, what's a pretty thing like you doing in this part of town?"

I shrug, give the man my most innocent smile, and say, "I'm just out for a pleasure cruise." Obviously anything but the truth, but hey, what else are you expected to say when someone's aiming a gun at your head? Thanks to Fawkes and his not-so-expert handling of the radio, I can tell that the transaction between the gunrunners is coming to a close. I'd better make this quick.

The guy waves his gun and says, "Okay toots, get out of the car nice and slow." That's my cue. I open the car door, nice and slow as ordered, but instead of putting both feet neatly on the ground I send one of my feet flying up to kick the gun out of Ugly-butt's hand. He yelps, and I deliver another kick straight to his groin. He groans and falls to the ground, gasping for air.

I step out of the car and glare down at the man, my expression livid. "No one calls me toots." I cuff the guy and stuff him into the back seat. Then I hear the sound of gunshots ringing out from the general direction of the warehouse. This is definitely not good. I pull out my gun and start running toward the area the gunshots seem to be coming from. No doubt, Fawkes is right in the thick of it.

A few seconds later I skid to a halt as a bullet nearly rips a new opening in my head. I take a defensive position, raise my gun, and holler "Federal Agent!" at the top of my lungs. Then, purely out of reflex, I pull the trigger. Three times. I have repetitive reflexes. 

The guy who was shooting falls to the ground, obviously dead. Another man, this one holding a briefcase, immediately makes a break for it. He's an easy target, so I raise my gun again, this time to incapacitate instead of kill. I fire, and to my surprise the man does NOT go down. However, a few moments later Darien appears on the ground, clutching his backside and swearing at me. Annoying, but not entirely unexpected considering I just shot him in the butt. 

I start to run after the perp, giving Fawkes a worried glance as I rush past. I round a corner and see the fleeing criminal not that far ahead. I put on an extra burst of speed and take a flying leap. I land on the guy's back, and both of us go down. 

I put the guy in a firm headlock and hiss in his ear, "You're under arrest." The guy responds by forcing himself into the upper position and attempting to knee me in the crotch. I jerk my head up and the top of my skull makes forceful contact with the guy's nose. The guy howls in pain and clutches his nose, which looks to be broken, and I take the opportunity to push him off me and slap him in cuffs. 

"That'll teach you to mishandle a lady," I say, giving the man a sickly-sweet grin. The man just groans in reply. 

I drag him by his cuffs all the way to the piece-of-junk car and shove him in the back seat along with the guy who tried to get the drop on me earlier. Then I stuff my gun back in its holster and walk over to Fawkes, who hasn't moved and looks decidedly irked. I bend down and ask in a worried tone, "Fawkes, are you okay?" 

Fawkes looks up at me, first in disbelief, and then in raw anger. "Are you kidding? You shot me in the ass!"

My first instinct is to put another hole in his butt, but that would be mean, and besides, I've already put away my gun. So I settle for giving him a harsh glare and saying, "Don't tempt me to do it again."

Fawkes shakes his head. "You think you can help me up?" He holds up a hand. I roll my eyes and grab it, pulling him up off of the ground. I end up taking a lot of his weight in the process. Man, he weighs more than I thought he would. Then, with him limping along and using me for support, we head back over to, you guessed it, the crap-car.

Once we get there, I'm faced with quite the dilemma. There are two guys in the back seat. But with the bullet hole in Fawkes' butt, he can't very well sit down in a normal position. So, I can either stick him in the back seat, which would make it very difficult to deal with the others space-wise, or I can put him in some precarious position in the passenger's seat. Too bad I can't just ice one of the criminals. That'd make things a whole lot easier... at least, until the feds found out that the bullet in the perp's head was government issue, not to mention recycled ammo. I swear, I am going to kill the Official for making us use that crap...

Finally, I decide on a viable option. I very carefully help Fawkes into the passenger side door, and then push him unceremoniously into the space between the two front seats, face down. He yelps and looks up at me in bewilderment. "What'd you do that for?"

"It's the best place to put you for now," I say, giving him a cheeky grin. "Hey, at least this thing isn't a standard." Personally, I count that as one of my few blessings at the moment. If this car were a standard, every time I downshifted the gearshift would get jammed up Fawkes' butt-crack.

I climb into the driver's side and try my best not to laugh at Darien, whose legs are sticking up in the front seat while his head is jammed up against the seat in back. He glances up at my two prisoners and says in a mock-friendly tone, "Hey there bros, how's it goin'?" Ugly-butt just glares at him; Broken-nose mumbles something about his injury. I shake my head and stick the keys into the ignition. I'd better get Fawkes back to the Agency soon, or those two goons back there are going to have him for lunch.

~~~~~**********~~~~~

Claire

~~~~~**********~~~~~

This is perfect, this is just bloody perfect. Darien had the gall to get shot in the gluteus maximus, and now I have to pull out the bullet because the Official's too cheap to send him to a hospital. And all this on the weekend. What was Darien doing on a mission on the weekend, anyway? I'm going to have to blow off my date for this! Oh well... it was a blind date, so it's not too bad. 

I pull into the Agency parking lot and get out of my car, my face set in a harsh scowl, and storm up to the doors of the Harding Building. It isn't easy to ignore the looks I'm receiving thanks to my current choice of attire, but I manage it. For the most part, anyway. Can I help it if I look good in leather pants and stiletto heels?

The familiar sight of the lab door comes into view. I take quick, even steps toward it, my back rigid. I slide the key card through the appropriate slot and watch the door slide open. This reveals Bobby and Alex standing near Darien, who is lying face down on the counteragent chair. All three look in my direction as I walk through the door and say in a terse manner, " How did this happen?"

Darien gives me a pointed look and says, "You don't wanna know." Actually I do, but it's obvious that he doesn't want to relive the embarrassment, so I let the matter slide.

La la la la la. I like to sing. Can you tell? Doo da, doo da, oh doo da day. I like to type too. Liz annoys me. And apparently she made the computer give me a hard time whenever I type anything bad about her. Oh NO! She's putting on a Jars of Clay CD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Somebody stop her! Oh crap! It's 'If I Left the Zoo'!

((_The author would like to apologize for this last paragraph. The author's sister was typing for her, and obviously decided to have a little fun at the author's expense. However, the author got even with her sister by playing a CD said sister hates. HA! SO THERE! *ahem* Now back to your regularly scheduled fanfic._))

Mind you, moose bites can be very nasty...

((_The author would like to apologize again; she has been watching too much Monty Python. Now back to your regularly scheduled fanfic, for real this time._))

All of a sudden Alex's head jerks up, her expression suggesting that she has just had a very unpleasant revelation. "Damnit, I left the gunrunners in the car!" she yelps, already halfway out of the lab doors. Bobby rushes after her, demanding to know why she would do a stupid thing like that. I watch the two of them run out the door and shake my head. What in the world is going on around here?

Darien clears his throat. "Hey, I'm the one who got shot, remember?"

I turn toward Darien and nod in a perfunctory manner. "Believe me, I remember." I pick up a rather large scalpel, giving Darien my best mad scientist look. "Let's get it out, shall we?" Darien's eyes widen in horror. I quickly lower the scalpel and say in a reassuring tone, "Just kidding."

Darien gives me a decidedly suspicious look and mutters, "Sure you were..." I roll my eyes and set about gathering the necessary equipment for the operation at hand. Let's see, scissors, hypodermic syringe, local anesthetic, scalpel, tweezers, needle and thread for the suturing that will take place afterwards... There, that should be everything.

I'm about halfway through cutting off Darien's pants when Bobby comes barreling into the room. His line of sight trails from me to the scissors, and finally to Darien's half-exposed bottom. His eyes promptly widen and he slaps a hand over his face. Then he turns around and fumbles blindly for the door, muttering, "I'll be outside if you need me."

I turn to Darien, an amused grin on my face. "Something tells me your backside isn't on Bobby's list of things he wants to see."

Darien smirks. "Now, YOUR backside on the other hand..."

I give Darien a mock-threatening glare and say in a warning tone, "Better watch yourself, there. I'm the one with the scalpel." Darien's comment wasn't that disturbing to me personally, but it's the principle of the matter. Although I must admit, the prospect of Bobby wanting to see my bottom is somehow mildly alluring... Oh bloody hell, now I'm thinking about HIS bottom! How am I supposed to perform this operation when my mind is focusing on the fact that Bobby has a cute bum?

Okay, Darien's pants are off. Time to administer the local. I carefully draw the anesthetic up into the needle, tapping it and pushing up the plunger slightly to make sure that there aren't any stray air bubbles, and then insert the needle matter-of-factly into Darien's bum. He yelps and gives me an accusing look. "You could've at least warned me..."

I smile wickedly and push down the plunger, watching the anesthetic make its way through the needle and into Darien's rump. "But where would be the fun in that?" Darien rolls his eyes, an expression of extreme long-suffering on his face. I shake my head in amusement and go to sterilize my hands.

After I've properly cleaned myself up for the surgery, I tentatively poke Darien's bottom to see if he reacts. He doesn't. I pick up the scalpel and tell him in a warning tone, "Alright, I'm going to begin the surgery. Don't move."

Darien turns to me again, looking rather worried. "Aren't you at least gonna test to make sure I won't feel anything first?"

I do my best to hold back a laugh. "I already did." Darien's face turns red and he turns back around the other way, muttering something about the audacity of women these days. Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. I pause for a moment, mentally preparing myself for the job at hand- most of which will quite likely consist of getting Darien to sit still so that I don't sever a major artery, I'm sure- and then begin the operation.

I must admit, I'm simply astonished; the surgery seems to be going off without a hitch so far. Darien has actually been very well behaved, although from the way he's clutching the chair it's more likely he's frozen with fear than voluntarily sitting still. I've managed to locate the bullet easily, and pulling it out wasn't difficult either. Now all that's left is to suture the wound.

And of course, Darien chooses now to start asking questions. "Hey Claire, how am I supposed to sit down with stitches in my butt?"

I glare at Darien's back. "You won't."

"But how am I gonna sleep?"

"On your stomach."

"But what if I roll over in the middle of the night?"

"You'll have a very sore bum in the morning."

"But what if-"

"Darien, I'm performing a very delicate operation here!"

"Sorry." Much to my relief, Darien falls silent. At least, for about five seconds. "But-"

"DARIEN!" I yell, trying my best not to stab my needle into his buttocks. Darien jerks in surprise at my outburst, nearly ruining several minutes of careful stitching. I take a deep breath and count to ten before speaking again. "Darien. If you want me to finish this operation without seriously compromising your physical well-being, I suggest that you be quiet." I make very sure to accentuate the last three words.

Just then the lab door swishes open and Bobby comes rushing in, a panicked look on his face. "Is Fawkes okay? I heard you yelling and..." Bobby trails off as his eyes take in the sight before him. He begins to look rather uncomfortable. "Did I come in at a bad time?"

I swear, I'm developing a migraine. I turn to Bobby, doing my best to keep some level of civility. "No, Bobby, you didn't. I'm just sewing things up here. If you'd like, you can stay and watch," I say, giving Bobby a pointed look. If there's one thing I know about Bobby, it's that he doesn't like hospitals, and he is very squeamish about medical procedures such as surgeries. My invitation is sure to send him dashing back out of the room.

Sure enough, Bobby pales and mutters, "No thanks. Just let me know when you're done." He turns and walks back out of the door, looking very uncomfortable indeed. I wonder if I was too harsh with him... after all, it wasn't really him I was angry at. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I make a mental note to apologize to him later. Then I get back to work sewing Darien up.

Finally, I'm finished. I look down at Darien and say, "I'm done." 

Darien looks up at me in relief. "Can I go home now?"

"So long as you get someone else to drive you, I don't see why not." I clean myself up and walk over to the lab door, surprised to see, not only Bobby, but Alex and a man in handcuffs also standing outside the door. I look over at Bobby and say, "The operation was a success." Bobby relaxes visibly. "And I'm sorry for being so snippy in there," I add in an apologetic tone.

Bobby shrugs. "Ahh, it's okay. It's been a long day." He gives me a flirtatious wink, which I take to mean he's forgiven me, and then walks into the lab.

I turn to Alex, giving her a puzzled look. "What is he doing here?" I ask curiously, gesturing at the man in the handcuffs, whom Alex is keeping a very firm grip on.

Alex glares at the man and states matter-of-factly, "He ran. I chased. He ended up with a broken nose."

Bloody hell, I can see where this is going... "And you want me to treat him, right?"

Alex shrugs. "If you have the time." I bring a hand up to the bridge of my nose, stifling a groan. Yes, I am indeed developing a migraine, and it promises to be quite painful indeed.

~~~~~**********~~~~~

The Official

~~~~~**********~~~~~

I need an aspirin. Today has just been one big headache after another. Without Eberts to assist me with the bookkeeping, I've been falling seriously behind, and now- what the hell?

liz_Z, get over here! It is clearly stipulated, IN MY CONTRACT, that you are NEVER TO WRITE ANYTHING IN MY POINT OF VIEW! This is a direct violation of my rights, and I demand that you fix this, NOW, or so help me I'll jam this damn contract right up your- hey, what are you doing? You can't do that! I'll sue! LET ME OUT OF HERE!

((_The author would like to apologize for the Official's outburst. He has been placed in the padded room until Claire can find the time to give him a complete psychiatric evaluation. This is not sitting well with Ugly-butt, who was placed in the padded room by Alex earlier and claims that the Official's ranting is giving him a headache. The author admits to feeling kind of sorry for Ugly-butt, but figures that after his completely inept attempt to deal with Alex earlier he deserves a little torture_.))

~~~~~**********~~~~~

Eberts

~~~~~**********~~~~~

This will never do. This will simply never do. The Official should never have put Robert to work in the file room. He simply doesn't have what it takes to be a proper filing clerk. I've tried to be patient with him, tried to teach him the proper filing procedure, but what happened this morning was just the last straw. There is no way I'll be able to take another day of this...

I've done all that I can to fix things today, but I'm going to have to put in overtime all next week just to get everything organized again. Not that I mind working in the archives, but I know for a fact that I've done most of this work before. And if there's one thing I can't stand, it's having to redo a job I know I did right the first time.

I heave a deep sigh and begin to walk toward the door of the archives, trying to keep my exhaustion from showing. It has been a very long day, and I'm tuckered out. I can't wait to get back to the house, where I can cook up some ramen, take a long shower, and play video games all evening. Or maybe I'll hang out in a chat room for a while... anything to take my mind off of today.

I open the door of the archives and walk out into the hall, absent-mindedly straightening my tie. It's become a habit over the past few years; whenever I'm extremely nervous or agitated, I straighten my tie. At least it keeps me from looking disheveled and unkempt.

I have one more stop before I head home. I make a quick detour to the Official's office to pick up some files, taking a moment to wonder why the Official is away from his desk, and then begin the familiar trek down to Accounting. I have several fond memories of that place. After I was booted out of the IRS, I worked down there for nearly two months before the Official discovered my filing skills and promoted me to his personal assistant. Good times, good times... Although I still can't figure out how Larry managed to fit that entire can of Cheese-Whiz up his nose.

I step out of the stairwell and into the threadbare room with its small collection of mismatched desks and antiquated computers that comprise the Agency's admittedly less than stellar accounting office. Hard to believe the accounting staff would be working over the weekend, but then, this week has been rather hectic.

I look around for a moment and then smile as I see the person I've been looking for. Sally. She's the perfect accountant- intelligent, hardworking, and with a great personality to boot. I walk over to her, a shy smile on my face. I can't help but notice that she looks particularly lovely today. She has her hair up in a ponytail, and her cherry lip-gloss is sparkling particularly brightly today.

Before I can request some assistance from one of my fellow number-crunchers, Thelma turns toward me and asks in a booming voice, "Hey, did you hear about what happened to that Darien Fawkes guy today?"

Now, Thelma isn't someone you want to mess around with. She weighs at least three hundred pounds and claims to have been a sumo wrestler in a previous life. I have no doubts about the fact that she could twist anyone in the accounting room into a pretzel. She obviously wants to spread a little office gossip, and I'm not one to argue with her. Besides, I really am curious to find out what happened to Darien today, so I glance over at her and ask, "What?"

Thelma's lips turn up in a satisfied grin and she leans back in her chair, which I would think a very dangerous thing for someone of her proportions. "He was chasing after some gunrunners and got shot in the ass."

Larry swivels his office chair toward us. "I heard he was fighting some terrorists and got shot with a top-secret government-issue laser gun."

Sally rolls her eyes at this obviously outrageous gossip. She says in a mildly sarcastic tone, "I heard he tried to fly to the moon on a pig and got blown up by a radioactive omelette."

Harold, who is the resident Perfect Dark expert, pipes up in an excited tone, "I heard he could become invisible!" Oh frell...

I can feel the color draining from my cheeks. The rest of the accounting staff turns toward Harold, shaking their heads in disbelief. I hurriedly attempt to regain my composure, laughing nervously and saying, "Come on, you don't believe everything you hear, do you?"

Harold shakes his head, muttering, "No..."

I do my best to keep from passing out in relief. "Good." I turn to Sally and ask in a bashful tone, "Sally, do you think you could deal with these for me? I'm sorry to bother you, but I've been so busy lately and-"

Sally nods, giving me a bright smile. "Sure, I can work on them. Although..." she bats her eyes and gives me a flirtatious wink, "...it'd be a lot more fun if the two of us could work on them together. Say, over dinner?"

Oh. My. Word. "Are... are you serious? You're asking me on a date?" I need to make sure; after all, I haven't had a date in six years. The idea that someone like Sally would want to ask me out is nothing short of a miracle.

Sally shakes her head and smiles, saying, "Of course I am, silly! I've only been trying to get your attention for the last three months." So that's what all those hacking tips and soothing backrubs were about...

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the fact that my throat is suddenly as dry as the Sahara desert. I give a quick nod and say in a slightly dazed tone, "Yes. Sure. I'll go out with you." This can't be happening, this can't be happening. I feel like I've stepped into some bizarre fantasy world. Me and Sally... who would've thunk it?

Okay, so Hobbes destroyed the filing system. Yes, the Official has disappeared and is quite likely locked up in the padded room due to some obscure whim of the author. True, Darien has been shot in the butt and will probably end up spending quite a lot of time lying on his stomach and trying to keep from pulling out his stitches. But I have a date with the most beautiful accountant in the history of the world. Maybe today isn't such a bad day after all.

The End

Final Apologies: _The author would like to apologize for the oddness of this story. She quite honestly had no plot in mind when she started to write it, and as such it might seem to ramble a bit. The author would also like to apologize for locking the Official in the padded room. She might let him out in a few years. The author would NOT like to apologize for playing that Jars of Clay CD to chase her sister out of the room. The author would like to apologize for apologizing so much._


End file.
